Watcher of Hunters
by Iryerris
Summary: He had liberated Gehrman, and taken the mantle of Watcher of Hunters and became the First Hunter to the second generation. It had been a long night, but now he awakens to the coming dawn. On hiatus; see profile for details. Disclaimer: I do not own Bloodborne or RWBY. Please support the official release.
1. Chapter 1

A creak of a wheelchair desperately needing oil.

A rustle of clothing, and the Doll kneels next to me, sitting in my teacher's wheelchair as if it were a throne. She joins me in gazing at the workshop, extinguished of its flames and rendered untouched with but a mere thought.

"And so, the hunt begins again," she said softly.

. . . . .

And so he had taken on the mantle of Watcher of Hunters, and the inherited title of First Hunter. It had two meanings, he acknowledged. The literal first hunter, the first person to raise arms against the Plague.

And what Gehrman was, the First among Hunters. Unequaled in his craft, the establisher of the Dream and the Hunt, the Workshop and its vast Arsenal.

He, who had inherited this knowledge, taught and saw many new hunters. He passed down the very weapons he had used, and took them back when they went to the waking world. He himself was not an exception to the Hunt, and returned to the Nightmare along with his students once he had fashioned a replacement leg, wielding his teacher's weapons.

Back and forth, for a long time.

Morning never seeming to come. The Hunt never seeming to end.

It was only after he returned from a hunt that he realized the Doll had become still.

And then, for the first time in a long, long, time, he had mourned the loss of a friend.

And he mourned the loss of his humanity, as well.

. . . . .

He had taken to recording his life, as well as his students. Their triumphs, their failures.

A quirked smile as an energetic huntress went about, fretting and worrying if her gear was good enough to face the challenges she was sure to face. She had a very close relationship to him, much like Maria and Gehrman, and he regretted it when she knelt before him, allowing him to take her life without a struggle.

Patient, calm guidance with a curious boy who wished to try his hand with the Rakuyo. He had wielded it deftly, but it was not enough to defeat him, one of the rare hunters who challenged him. Perhaps he had wished to free his mentor, just as he had for Gehrman? But while Gehrman was crippled by age, having long since left his prime when the nameless moon presence descended into the Dream, he had not aged beyond a day. In the end, he forced the struggling boy down and cleanly removed his head with the Burial Blade.

A madly laughing boy who had come to the Dream so many times to replenish his quicksilver bullets after discovering that yes, bone ash marrow did indeed affect his cannon. He too, surrendered without a fight, and left the Dream.

He had seen so many, and yet he did not bother to get their names. It was meaningless to do so. The optimistic ones, who wanted to meet their teacher in the real world, when dawn came. The idealistic ones, who wanted to free him from his burden. The cunning ones, who attempted to use his knowledge against him. He had seen so many hunters and huntresses come and go.

They never stopped. They usually came alone. Sometimes in pairs. But they never stopped, meaning that morning had yet to come.

"The night and the dream… are long indeed…" he mutters to himself, runes flashing in his mind's eye before fading. Clockwise Metamorphosis. Guidance. Blood Rapture. Radiance. He knew how the beasts fought better than any hunter in his employ, and it was an easy matter to roam the streets along with his students, teaching them the patterns.

The First Hunter quietly rolled out of the Hunter's Workshop and gazed at the large stone markers that signified a realm. Few had matched his feat of hunting all the areas, and fewer still had managed to defeat a lord of the area. This new generation was softer.

It is a good thing, when he looks at it optimistically. It means that the waking world had not intended, at least initially, for its citizens to grow into the killing machines Gehrman's hunters were. He was the last of that generation and the first of this new one.

The Old Hunters' knowledge survived through him. He had learned the Art of Quickening almost spontaneously, along with how to recreate the trick weapons, the blueprints rising to his mind.

He was first among hunters, in a place so high no one could come close to matching him.

Until, eventually, one did.

. . . . .

He looks at his student with mournful eyes, from where he is supported by the knife that pierces his heart. Even now the nameless moon presence is trying to reknit his skin, pump blood back into his heart, but it is not capable. He knows that this is a mortal wound. He will return to the waking world, and his student would become the First Hunter of a third generation.

But does his student know of what he is about to undergo? He can feel the presence getting larger, more powerful. The nightmare is encroaching on the Dream, to claim its' due.

The knife is extracted from his chest with an odd sounding noise. It had been so long since he had been injured he had forgotten what it felt like. He slumps to his knees, a white light blossoming around him, rustling the white flowers in the breeze it created. The garden was covered in these flowers, as once the gravestones fully lined the road he had taken to planting a flower in its stead.

The Burial Blade drops from numb fingers. The blunderbuss, empty, joins it. Rakuyo almost certainly beheads a few flowers and Evelyn is heavy in its holster.

He gazes at his student who returns it with uneasy eyes, and then all he knows is darkness.

And then he is in the waking world. Stirring to life under a tree.

Green, wavy grass. He's in a forest.

This isn't Yharnam, nor is it any region of the world he knows of.

While he pushes himself to his feet, his hand lands on the Burial Blade and nearly cuts his finger open. This shouldn't be happening. The weapons of the Dream were not supposed to come with him to the real world; they were supposed to be passed to his student. With a thought, the entire runic collection flashes before his mind, and the familiar power pulsed gently through his body.

And yet, here he wakes, with full remembrance of the Dream, carrying with him weapons and still retaining all the knowledge and power he had acquired.

What happened? Did the Dream collapse for good?

A surge of hope floods his mind. Is the Hunt over, at long last? Is the plague cured?

He pats himself down. The Burial Blade is picked up and sheathed, and the wooden stock is examined for damage. Of course, the weapon of choice of the First Hunter would hardly be damaged so easily and it remains as pristine as ever, a testament to its craftsmanship. Rakuyo is still on his back, half embedded in dirt. It appears to have been the reason why he was in a half sitting position. The blunderbuss is crossed with the Burial Blade's stock, and the Evelyn is still in its holster.

It takes a few moments to gather his bearing and collect his thoughts, but he is away, striding along the road with powerful strides. He opts to use the Rakuyo as a walking stick, as he is still missing his left leg and his wheelchair is no longer with him.

He wondered, briefly, what Lady Maria would think of her beloved weapon being used in such a disrespectful and mundane manner. Rakuyo is, after all, a weapon with a long and distinguished history, perhaps only equal to the Burial Blade itself in terms of service. Then he reasons Maria had to have thrown it down a well for a reason and his bemusement increases.

Trick weapons were virtually indestructible anyway, capable of shattering stone with a good hit and none the worse for wear. He never questioned what materials they were made of, but Gehrman did remark that he used siderite to make the Burial Blade. Was it an attribute of the Dream, the absolute essential need for a weapon to remain intact? If it was, would it still retain that property here, in the waking world? Deciding not to risk it, he simply slaps the shaft against his palm, gripping it like a staff and continues on his way, but with a noticeable limp. In his final battle against his student he had to take small steps or use Quickening to compensate. His range of motion was robbed the moment the nameless moon presence grabbed him.

He is taken aback at just how green the forest is. In a perpetual night in a seemingly dead world, he had grown so used to seeing the dull greys, the pitch blacks, that seeing such vividness seemed more a dream than the Dream itself.

He had been so lost in thought that he wasn't aware of the crashing of waves until he saw the vast blue sea, right after a steep cliff. He was mesmerized by the very sight; he had always appreciated nature before he had arrived in Yharnam, in no part due to growing up in a small, isolated hamlet before…

…well, before the Scourge had arrived. The person who was infected slaughtered the entire hamlet before running rampant. He himself had only survived by hiding under the corpses of his family and having the luck of several thousand people.

He turned, spinning in a blissful circle. He was most at home in an environment like this, memories of happier, simpler times before he had been forced to travel to Yharnam in hopes of curing the Scourge. Then, he noticed a building, tall, castle-like, and regal in appearance.

That would be his first destination. He steadily made his way to the distant building.

* * *

A/N: *desperately trying to incite muse for FoS so expanding content to other Souls games*

Alright. So. I caved. There is a ridiculous amount of crossover potential of Bloodborne and RWBY I could not resist and it gives me an excuse to watch the show.

This is a concept shot; I have absolutely zero issues with writing this story but I need to get feedback from you guys. Normally I focus on only one story at a time, but if my FoS readers have no problems with reading this while waiting for the next chapter, then I'll make an exception. I'd write both, but that burns me out incredibly quickly. Think of this as "testing the waters"; if the readers find it favorable I'll continue writing it and publish it along with FoS.

I have his name planned out, yes it complies with the color necessity rule.

I am definitely taking some likely liberties with Bloodborne canon as I have not fully explored the lore as well as I have for Dark Souls so PLEASE correct any lore discrepancies or if I got anything wrong.

I've ironed out the majority of the Hunter's personality; he has little to no emotional attachment (the Doll goes inert) to people and is absolutely willing to kill but is not trigger happy like other stories. He's much like Gehrman, being a tired, exceptionally badass Hunter who still looks after prospective Hunters but forms little beyond a teacher-like relationship with him. That energetic huntress was the sole exception, the rare light in the darkness.

As with Tayrr the Monarch, for all intents and purposes he has done EVERYTHING in Bloodborne, did all the questlines and all the main story, as well as the DLC. He followed the _Honoring Wishes_ ending and inherits the Burial Blade along with the Old Hunter Badge from Gehrman along with the Workshop and became the eponymous "Watcher of Hunters" and assumed the role of First Hunter for the second Hunt.

As his name implies he will potentially be an Almighty Bystander, guiding the people of Remnant with a steady hand (I have him tentatively planned for a teaching role at Beacon) and stepping in when the going gets rough. This is because he may not even care about the Hunt anymore; he's like Gehrman, having hunted for so long it stops meaning anything to him personally and only offering his Hunters rest.

Unlike in Familiar of Souls the Hunter is NOT open to romance for personality reasons at the start. This will probably be gen, considering he's also a fair bit older than the rest of the cast being about ten to fifteen years older. He didn't age in the Dream but had his foot halfway out his prime when he arrived in Yharnam. If he regains emotional attachment then the pairing must also be age appropriate.

Also consider how long he's been in the Dream; when you arrive in the Dream there's apparently 360 gravestones. When this Hunter, you, left the Dream, so many Hunters and Huntresses had come and gone you started planting flowers when they died because you ran out of room to put headstones.


	2. Chapter 2

He had drawn a fair bit of attention when he just walked right in.

When he had shoved open the doors, the campus police had immediately saw him on their security footage. They sent a team to intercept him, while he roamed the halls.

"He looks injured," a guard noted.

"How can you tell?"

"See that limp? And no one just covers themselves in blood for the sake of it. Maybe he needs medical attention?"

It was a valid concern. The intruder had a very tattered and very bloody appearance. The semester had not yet started, so it was an easy thing to simply block off the exits without alarming anyone. The headmaster had already told them to bring the intruder to his office.

"Send a message to the team leader; tell him that we are not to threaten this individual. Not unless he fires first."

. . . . .

And so that was why he paused in the middle of the hallway, holding Rakuyo and in general being very dangerous looking. His hand itches toward his holsters, but which to seize? The blunderbuss, as they were many? Evelyn, as they were in a narrow hallway?

"Stop, and lay down your weapons. We need to question you."

A ponderous blink. He kneels, setting Rakuyo down gently and unhooking the harnesses of his weapons. They were hunters, he could see it in their eyes and demeanor. And there was no point in antagonizing a fellow human and potential ally.

He watches as the hunters unsteadily step forward and pick up his weapons. He frowns a bit, and steps forward to immediately be greeted by the sight of five pistols rising. He freezes and is very still. A robbery? Had he been duped?

"Sir, come with us. We'll get you medical attention and if we determine you aren't a threat, we'll let you go."

His voice, hoarse with disuse, rasps from cracked lips. "Treat those weapons gently."

They nod in acknowledgement, clutching his weapons tighter. It doesn't matter if they want to wield it, he supposes. Rakuyo requires a certain amount of skill to even hold, and before he became the First Hunter not even he could wield it efficiently. Now he simply channeled the knowledge of Lady Maria when he clutched the swords in his hand. It echoed in her blood, using him like a puppet to wield the weapons the way she did.

The Burial Blade was a masterwork that defined the entire arsenal of weapons but there was a reason it was never duplicated or distributed for common use. It simply required skill beyond what most Hunters were patient enough to learn, but his efforts and long hours of training with Gehrman were rewarded, in the end.

He casts his gaze around. The building is very reminiscent of the Lecture Hall. "Where am I?"

"You are in Beacon Academy, not in dress code and here when the semester is not in."

A place of learning. There were very few hunter academies in Yharnam. There was Gehrman's workshop, but that did not really count as an academy. Ludwig's Healing Church, however, was very much a proper institution. In its prime, it was typically filled with nobles or members of the clergy or what have you.

"What do you teach?"

"It's an academy of hunting. Do you have memory issues, by any chance?"

He ponders the question. It is a valid concern, and he thanks them mentally for worrying over him. But ultimately not relevant. Whatever memories he did not remember were of times long past, something that should not concern these fresh-faced strangers. "No."

"Then the headmaster will answer your questions."

They stop before a door, the hunters holding his weapons and watching him uneasily. He realizes he perhaps made for a sorry sight. Most of the blood staining his coat was his, after all.

"Come in," a crisp, clear voice rings out from behind the door.

The door opens, opening on well-oiled hinges. He appreciates the noiselessness.

"Headmaster Ozpin, we have successfully detained the intruder and confiscated his weaponry," a guard salutes.

"Leave it here, I want to talk to him in private."

When they set down his weapons and leave, he makes to pick them up. He is halted, once again, by the sight of a cane. That was not good. He had made the mistake of willingly disarming himself, but seeing a potential ally had caused him to sheath his weapons. There was no point in teaching, after all, if he reflexively carved out the throat of anyone who crossed him.

Even though his tainted blood roiled when he saw them.

This hunter, Ozpin, leans forward on his desk, examining him. He has good eyes. Scrutinizing eyes, befitting a Hunter of Hunters. He wonders, idly, if the Hunter before him was ever once in the Dream. Those eyes are not commonly seen.

"Who are you?" he asks.

"I am a watcher of hunters. There are many titles given to me," Inheritor to the title of the Holy Blade when he had slain Ludwig. First Hunter of the Second Hunt. Hunter of Hunters. Slayer of Great Ones. Vileblood. Executioner of the Church, albeit falsely and to comfort a dying Ludwig.

The good hunter. Keeper of the Dream.

"But perhaps none of them mean anything to you. Tell me, does the name 'Yharnam' mean anything to you?" he asks in a quiet voice. Ozpin has to strain to hear it.

"'Yharnam'… it is one of the oldest cities of humanity. It doesn't exist anymore, the name itself has long since passed into legend. Are you from Yharnam?" Ozpin asks. He personally thinks this man is delusional. The stories of Yharnam and the legendary Hunters of old were things all children tended to hear. Since they didn't have Dust to help them, their deeds were generally seen as greater than most modern hunters.

"I went there, once. A long time ago."

"You aren't that old," Ozpin scoffs slightly. This man was barely older than he was. Now he's claiming he went to a mythical city? The very idea is absurd. Perhaps he needs a thorough psychological examination.

"You'd be surprised."

"What's your name?" Ozpin asks, bringing up a search of all residents of Vale.

"I don't remember. I haven't been called by name in a very long time," he says after a brief moment of contemplation. His face becomes bemused at the thought. No one had referred to him by name, always calling him "paleblood" or "hunter".

"That's not very helpful. Are you not from Vale? Which kingdom are you really from?"

He gets a blank look in response. "Vale? Kingdom?"

"I'm trying to help you here, and playing dumb won't help. Really, where are you from?" Ozpin asks seriously.

A blink. "The place I was born was destroyed by the Plague."

Ozpin frowns. "The Plague hasn't been active since humanity discovered Dust."

It is the stranger's turn to frown. "Dust?"

Then Ozpin realizes. The stranger's incredibly dated garb. It is reminiscent of the hunters of old. More specifically, it resembles a famed teacher and guide to humanity in its younger years, when Grimm had not looked at humanity.

"Are you a keeper of the Dream?" he asks. It feels a bit silly, asking about a child's fairy tale, but from the way he jerks in surprise, he's on to something, as absurd as it seems.

"Are you one of my hunters? I do not recognize you, I am sorry."

The stranger before him is a First Hunter, and there's only been two recorded. Gehrman, the champion of humanity who defined what it meant to be a hunter and made his objects into weapons, taught humanity how to fight and even how to use their Aura, albeit in a very primitive state. The second is simply recorded as "The Hunter" and was remarked to boast incredible skill with weaponry. It was his under his tenure as Master of the Hunt that gave humanity the time necessary to discover Dust, and refined the Art of Quickening into the modern Aura.

"Gehrman?" Ozpin tries.

"My teacher," the self-proclaimed watcher corrects.

Ozpin leans back in his seat, astonished. Here, sitting before him, against all odds and reason, was a legendary Old Hunter, back when humanity had cobbled together weapons using common materials instead of the high-tech weapons used today. Even now as he casts a gaze towards the weapon, he dismissed them as shoddy, homemade when he saw them. But now, upon closer examination each one possesses a history so old he can see it, much like how one can tell when a pot is old.

"From your expression you know of the Hunt, the Longest Nights, and the Dream. Are you, perhaps, a descendant of one of my hunters?" the Hunter himself asks him.

"No, but I've heard the stories from the ones who woke up." A thoughtful hum. Ozpin continues, attempting to press the Hunter. "Are you injured? Do you require any medical assistance?" he offered. He felt a little guilty, having instructed the team to bring the intruder to him, so for all he knew he could be losing blood right now.

The Hunter pats himself down slowly, a gloved hand pausing over his heart as if feeling for a wound. "It seems that would not be necessary."

"Then, might I ask what you intend to do now that you are here?"

The Hunter thoughtfully taps his chair's armrest. "I do not know. I was hoping I might travel a bit, enjoy the waking world after such a long night," he said wistfully. He had never actually considered what he would actually DO if someone managed to best him; the very thought seemed unthinkable, so he had consigned himself to an endless night, honoring the wishes of his predecessor. However, after seeing just how bright and vivid the world was, and how people are here, he wanted to see what worth he could find.

"Perhaps you might consider teaching here? We are a little understaffed, and it will be a win-win situation. We get the knowledge and experience you have to offer, and you get to," Ozpin pauses for a bit, wondering just what it could offer to him. "Well, it will give you a chance to meet the new generation."

"And what would I teach here?" He didn't refuse immediately. A good sign.

"We don't have many advanced combat instructors, and some rare students use rather exotic weaponry, like scythes. Perhaps you could show them a thing or two?" Ozpin suggested.

The Hunter chuckles a bit. Just like he never left the Dream. Well, it may be, perhaps, the only thing he's good for. "Very well, but know that theoretical knowledge will only go so far. I will teach them practically."

Ozpin opened his arms wide. "You are free to be as unconventional as you like. Unconventional weapons require unconventional means to teach, no doubt."

A nod of satisfaction. Excellent. "Now, you need a name if you are to teach here. Hm…"

He leans back in his chair, folding his arms and gazing at the legendary Hunter. Taking the name of a legendary Hunter wouldn't be acceptable. Children grew up on the stories of Lady Maria, of Ludwig the Holy Blade, of Gehrman the First Hunter, and the Hunter among Hunters, the very person sitting before him.

He gazes at the tattered black mantle that shrouds his back, the gray cape the circles his shoulders. Then he decides. "Nero," Ozpin finally states.

"Nero… It is a good name," he approves.

"Then, from henceforth you will be Professor Nero of Beacon Academy, instructor of Advanced Weaponry. Is this agreeable to you?" he extends his hand across his desk.

Calloused fingers wrap around his slowly. "It is. I accept your terms, Ozpin."

"Then, let me get you up to speed on how modern day hunters fight. We've three weeks before the semester starts, but with a person of your reputation, you should pick it up in no time at all."

. . . . .

He had been absolutely fascinated by Dust in general.

 _He shook a vial a bit, watching as the air froze into snowflakes and sparked here and there. "If this was a tool in the Workshop, things would've been much easier."_

Although, he was a bit confused at how Dust crystals work.

 _He had taken one glance at it and immediately tried to break it. "What are you doing?" Ozpin said, heart pounding. That was a refined and cut Burn crystal._

 _Nero stared at him matter of factly. "I am breaking it into gems to slot into my weapons."_

 _"Terrible, terrible idea. These are elemental crystals."_

 _"Well, all the more reason to break them apart then. Elements are invaluable to a Hunter." Gehrman knew how many bolt and fire papers he went through. Having a permanent means to inflame his weapon? Why had no one brought such knowledge to the workshop?_

 _"You use them like traps. Here, let me show you."_

 _It was stronger than a Molotov cocktail, he would admit that. But since it didn't break on impact and required the use of a quicksilver bullet to break, he doubted it would see much use for him._

He had awoken his Aura fairly quickly, given that it was simply the refined form of his Art of Quickening. His Semblance followed suit, and Ozpin quickly requested he not use it indoors.

He had set up a Workshop in the Emerald Forest, and spent most of his time carefully replicating the Dream and recreating the Arsenal. There were, unfortunately, some things he could not recreate. The Holy Moonlight Sword was one such weapon. But, for everything else, he could recreate it. Some, like the Saw Cleaver and Beast Cutter, were simple and easily done. Others like the Reiterpallasch took a bit more finesse and caution to make.

Yet his Arsenal was remade, the weapons lining the wall over his desk. The familiar Saw Cleaver was pristine and untouched, unlike the one he had used, worn, rusted, and covered in cloth. None of these weapons had the blood-soaked past of their predecessors, being made from scratch, but undoubtedly he would find use for them.

Ozpin and he had come to a minor disagreement when it came to his own, personal weapons, however.

 _"Nero, there are better, more advanced materials and weapons that are utilized today. The trick weapons were rendered obsolete by the end of the technology boom." Ozpin is looking over his shoulder, peering at the cluttered desk of weapons._

 _"I don't care. This is how I learned, and it is how I will fight." As he finished the firing mechanism on the Reiterpallasch, he fired a test shot, the round cracking the quiet air and solidly nailing a tree outside. He grunted in approval, it would work. One weapon done. He set it aside and began constructing the rifle spear. Considering the blueprints were very similar to the Cainhurst weapon, it was simple to remake._

 _"At least allow us to upgrade the materials. These are, well, rather poor quality-" Ozpin reached out to pick up an open Hunter's pistol. The weapon was already loaded with a quicksilver bullet, and he had prepared about three hundred in advance. It was not the efficiency of the weapon Ozpin was concerned about. The weapons Nero had arrived with were heavily damaged; there was a reason, after all, he had thought they were homemade, an admirable effort at replicating a huntsman's weapons at best and downright shoddy at the worst._

 _His wrist had been seized, and he was pulled roughly down to his newest professor's level in his wheelchair, having gained it on his request. Nero himself had partly risen to his feet, leaning on the cane he had made. He closed in to Ozpin's personal space. "My weapons. Will be left well alone."_

 _Ozpin backed away slowly, the hand that seized his arm in a grip of iron loosening._

 _"Alright, we'll not touch this topic anymore." The offer was always open, of course; he made sure Nero knew that and he had apologized for his explosive temper and thanked him for the consideration._

 _That was dangerous. Lady Maria had surfaced there very briefly. His Vileblood was resonating with Lady Maria's Echoes, making it much easier for the Astral Clocktower's mistress to take control of him. They were, after all, indirect relatives and blood called for similar blood._

He had been given a Scroll, and while it was absolutely nothing like the scrolls he was familiar with, he had adjusted well enough to use it.

Three weeks were nothing to one who had experienced several lifetimes in the Dream. Before he knew it, his would be colleagues arrived, and in two days' time, so would the students.

He sat in his wheelchair, watching the shattered moon shine down on him. What did that mean? Was it an indisputable sign the Hunt was over? Did something happen to the nameless moon presence after he fell?

Regardless, there were no beasts to hunt, Ozpin confirmed and showed him the treatment humanity had devised without the use of blood thanks to this Dust. He laughed a hollow laugh. The Plague was gone, a relic of the past, as was he. He was the only danger to this world, thanks to the countless infusions, the untold amount of Echoes.

He closed his eyes. He no longer dreamed, but he saw the same dancing lights Ludwig had seen a long time ago that emptied his fears. His true mentor, his guiding moonlight, he called his sword. He was fearless to the end.

Fear was what separated man from the beasts.

"Fear the blood," Gehrman had always said to him.

As long as he retained that fear, that innate caution, he would never succumb to his bloodlust.

* * *

A/N: The reception and statistics were good enough for me to accept this as a project to write in tandem with FoS. Consider this chapter a confirmation I'll continue to write this.

I will not guarantee an update schedule as real life happens; updates will happen when the inspiration strikes me. Considering, however, RWBY is more interesting than Familiar of Zero, you can consider updates to happen fairly frequently. Before that, however, I will be watching literally everything concerning RWBY so I don't make any mistakes.

I'll not waste time rehashing events you guys already know in RWBY, so next chapter will cut straight to the Examination, considering Nero lives in the forest.

I chose the name Nero for the primary reason that it means "black" in Italian. The Hunter was always going to have a name evocative of night and Nero was simply the first name that came to mind.

I'll be basing Beacon Academy off of a real college campus, meaning there are brief periods of when students are not in for holidays or intersessions.

I'm making a daring decision in making the Bloodborne verse the same as RWBY's, only in the distant past.

This won't come up because Nero doesn't know what happened, but his student consumed the Umbilical Cord and killed the moon presence, temporarily ending the Hunt while he matures to take its place. The moon is symbolically shattered and will reform when the Hunt begins. Night, after all, always comes.

The events of Bloodborne became regarded as myth and legend, back when humanity did not have Dust and was losing against the Grimm. The Hunters who learned from Nero awoke and began to fight back. Dust was a stroke of luck and was successful in turning the tide, and humanity became dependent on it. Dust did not exist in the Dream, hence rendering future hunters incapable of recreating the Old Hunters' and Nero's deeds.

The Art of Quickening is simply Aura before humanity really learned how to use it en masse and subsequently pool their knowledge to refine it. Hence instead of the refined, glowing radiance, Gehrman and Maria had a flickering, flame-like aura. Nero also has access to this state. Quickening can only be used for offense, but never deteriorates in strength due to using the strength of blood.

Nero's preferred weapon is the Rakuyo, drawing the Burial Blade to bid his Hunters farewell. He wields it along with the blunderbuss in homage of his teacher, and the Rakuyo because he has a special resonance with it due to Nero correctly deducing that Maria is a Vileblood. Since they both share, however faintly and however distantly, the same blood through Annalise, Nero can temporarily channel Maria instead of simply copying her like the other Old Hunters.

EDIT: I fumbled when writing Ozpin, I'm getting the feeling. This is what happens you you try to write a character when having not seen all of the show (has only seen up to Jaunedice part 2).

This chapter will undergo a rewrite once I finish watching RWBY and I will rewrite Ozpin's character to better fit what is depicted. I had tried to show that he was understandably cautious when dealing with an armed, bloodied stranger with no records showing up out of nowhere on his doorstep and his attitude towards Nero is meant out of concern; Bloodborne's weapons are practically falling apart and I would certainly hope Ozpin isn't going to let someone fight using an inadequate weapon. But, I got your feedback and will rewrite Ozpin's character once I finish marathoning the show. I will also be reevaluating Nero's position as "Advanced Weaponry" is a bit ambiguous; this was meant for dangerous weaponry (Ozpin's remark on Crescent Rose being one of the most dangerous weapons ever made) but I think guest reviewer Sightsear made a far more interesting proposition.


	3. Omake: Blood

Warning: This is a Chapter I rate M, for descriptions of rather graphic violence. I may up the rating on the story, depending on your feedback.

* * *

Life was good.

His was a pale, almost exhausted face, seemingly permanent bags under his eyes. Relatively youthful, his life and skills credited to a very violent past. From a life spent spilling an almost endless amount of blood to one where the most violent one would get would be a raised voice. Still however, he had succumbed to the bloodthirst in his previous life, and was silenced almost mercifully.

He had woken up, fists flailing, to a concerned town's population who gathered around this individual who was found collapsed by a mailbox in the dead of night. And he had been taken in, made one of their own.

He was a server at a small coffee store. Mundane, unexciting work. It was such a drastic shift from his old life that he had seen it with an unprecedented amount of enthusiasm and almost endless bemusement. He always had a very charming smile as he served, which attracted quite a few women. Only he would know it was because of how amused he was at his new life.

His equipment was in a box in his closet in his condo. He was now wearing an unadorned white shirt and jeans. He had promptly and immediately bought five identical sets of these articles of clothing; he had never been picky when it comes to what to wear.

His lady was a young, pretty thing. Golden curls bounced down her back in a lovely cascade. Demure in attitude, yet not some mere damsel. Light blue eyes the color of a lake shining in the sun. Many a painter would give an arm and a leg to have the opportunity to paint one like her.

She had been interested in what she called "old school gallantry". The nerve; that was merely what he had grown up with!

And now she was gone.

He had received a notification on his Scroll; "Come to the docks unarmed. We demand ransom." A picture followed, of his lady with a knife at her throat. He wasn't even sure how they got his number, nor why they had selected him as a target. At this point, he frankly didn't care.

Masked bastards, who held his lady at knifepoint. His hands clenched into white knuckled fists.

Fine.

He would not go as this happy civilian.

If they wished to spill blood, then they would face one of the most violent and skilled killers to ever walk the night.

With a calm he did not truly feel, he pulled the box out from its place in the closet, opened it, and retrieved the first piece of his old equipment.

An intricately decorated, but almost featureless helm, curved outward like a beak.

. . . . .

Upon his perch atop a hill, he saw everything upon this pier.

Three… no, four of these masked men, this "White Fang" were patrolling the docks.

And on the pier, his lady sat, arms tied, a gag around her.

They hid well. They had made a sort of fortified area using ocean containers. It was a small yet growing port town, so the containers did not surprise him.

But it would not help them.

He dropped from his perch upon silent feet.

The first fell to a surprise attack.

Literature and stories would say that an edge to the throat would kill all but the most resilient of men.

That was a lie.

To truly accomplish this, one would have to cut so deeply it would appear to be an aborted decapitation. It was messy, unclean, and grisly.

He did it without a second thought.

Very early on in his time here, had had discovered a most nasty secret.

His steel seemed to ignore the protective Aura the townspeople had. It was why he had not worn it when others wore some kind of weapon to defend themselves. He sealed it in its sheath and locked it away. It was unnecessary and he did not want to risk losing himself to the red song it sung, yet again.

His blade had snaked from its sheath, the rasp of steel being drawn from brass the only warning the man would ever get, and as he stiffened and turned, he stepped forward and swung the blade forth, the steel almost shrieking with delight.

It was, as mentioned, a grisly and messy death.

The light faded from the two eyes peeking from the mask, and a fine spray of thick blood splattered itself across an unwelcoming, uncaring steel helm, and a dusty, ink black cloak. He had tried to shout for his companions, but his brain was already losing consciousness from the lack of blood. The rapidly cooling corpse slumped against the wall of the container, a pulse of arterial blood painting the steel a morose red.

The second had half his face blown apart by the two chambered pistol. The air cracked and roared, and the man spun away, clutching the ruins of half his face before collapsing and being still.

And now, he paused upon the piers as two shouts of alarm rang across still water, concealed in the shadows as flashlights flicked on.

He raised his blade, caked in blood.

Only a single one moved toward him.

Amateur.

He stepped forward right as the masked man turned the corner, the man pausing in surprise and instinctual fear.

. . . . .

Stella was not sure what to think.

She had been kidnapped when she had taken a brief shortcut through an alley; she hadn't thought much of it. This wasn't a particularly dangerous neighborhood so she felt relatively comfortable going through a well-worn shortcut.

Yet the White Fang was here. Well, not really.

They weren't "real" members of the White Fang, but they were potential recruits. Posers would be a good word. Wannabes. Their attitude was derived from the news and their own perception of how a Fang member would act, and their perception was affected in the same way. Pack aggression, but divide them and put them against someone who knew how to fight...

Internally she sort of scoffed at this cliché setting, almost laughing; it was like a TV show. Soon there'd be a superhero, policeman, or maybe even a trainee Huntsman to come save her.

Yet reality was not written by producers, nor was this on a comfortable, well-lit set. The docks were freezing at this time and her breath fanned out in mists before she had been gagged to prevent screaming for help and risking the attention of this relatively small port town.

At the same time, the snap of a gun was very distinctive, and the would be White Fang member that had a pistol was standing right by her, leering at her like she was some piece of meat. He was shaking now in his boots, the pistol aimed at the container while he sent his friend over to investigate. Neither of them really wanted to check it out. These two were soft, scared children. They had sent out the street member out to serve as the front line of defense. That one probably had grown up with a rough life, if the scars on his arms and face were any indication.

He shakily went out, walking away from the security of his friend, turned the corner, and vanished.

Seconds went by. Seconds turned into minutes.

"R-Rusty? Report!" he called, voice quavering.

No response. He turned to her then, trying to sound commanding but failing.

"S-s-keep behaving."

He walked outwards, towards the dark corner. "This isn't funny Rusty-"

A flask flew from the darkness and smashed against his face. He shrieked, having pulled up his mask to better look at her.

As the limbs of the wannabe fell slack like a puppet whose strings had been cut, _he_ rushed forward.

An almost bird-like mask, ornately decorated and splattered in blood.

A dusty, twin tailed coat, feathered like a crow's wings.

Steel armor, winking in the silver moonlight.

And a curved sword, clenched in a two-handed warrior's grip, blood practically congealed on its edge, making it seem thicker at the tip than it actually was.

. . . . .

He had to make this fast. The ancient rites of Cainhurst that swirled in rippled engravings were never pleasant to bear.

He swung from the upper right, cleaving downward.

This was a blow he used to cut the flesh of beasts, to cut through armor and armored clothes like it was paper.

Against this "White Fang", unarmored save for street clothes? He recognized the red jacket as being one sold in a street corner store. It wasn't made out of anything particularly unique or special.

It practically bisected this, this child. He felt a vague twinge of sympathy and self-disgust, for dipping once more into his blood-soaked past. Yet this was necessary. This would be the first and hopefully last time he would need to draw the Chikage in this lifetime.

The man fell into two halves, steaming offal hitting the ground with an almost unreal sound. The Chikage flicked up, almost contemptuously, and ended the corpse's twitches. Another flick downward as his left hand fell away from the hilt to grasp his repeating pistol and the blood sprayed off it, leaving a pristine blade. He sheathed it, where the hilt became covered by a feathered wing.

And then there was nothing. He strode over to his lady with purposeful strides and swiftly undid the knot tying her wrists. She rubbed them, and he noticed with a surge of anger that her hands had turned an ugly looking whitish-blue, from lack of blood and perhaps the evening chill.

"I am sorry," he said abruptly before anything else.

"Wait, that voice, you're-" she said, her voice turning fearful.

"You were expecting a hero, yet you got me instead, naught but a nameless bloody crow…" He tugged off his helm and dropped it, the metal making a loud clang as it hit the steel dock. The pale, haunted face of her boyfriend grimaced and frowned.

* * *

A/N: *heartbeat* No, I'm not dead. College has been kicking my ass severely. Along with that, personal dissatisfaction, with both my writing and the show itself is preventing me from further progressing in the story. RWBY is, by nature and premise, a rather cheerful story for the first two volumes, a "fairy tale" if you would, while Bloodborne channels Lovecraftian horror. I am having some difficulty meshing the two genres in a way that satisfies myself and still retains both the horror of Bloodborne, yet the humor of RWBY.

Some people have been wondering how a Hunter will fare against a Huntsman; this doesn't quite answer that question but I hope this _does_ answer the change in attitude a Hunter has with a Huntsman.

Brutal. Efficient. Merciless. All are apt words used to describe the Hunt.

The star of this omake is none other than the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst. The flask he threw was Numbing Mist. Supposed to numb life essence, but I interpreted that here as basically a highly potent nerve agent. No, I can't translate everything perfectly from game mechanics.

It is not canon. The WoH Crow woke up somewhere in Atlas some three hundred years before the story began, and plied his trade yet again in the first wave of Huntsmen.

Something I failed to mention last chapter, regarding Nero's knowledge of the weapons: the blueprints and knowledge extend only to Hunter weapons; the blueprints of weapons such as the Tonitrus (Church weapon) and Evelen (original by Cainhurst donut steel) are unknown to him. He reverse engineered the Reiterpallasch using the Rifle Spear's mechanics as a base; hence why he needed to test it. Essentially, his Evelyn is a one-of-a-kind weapon that will likely never be seen in Remnant again.

I revealed some mechanics behind how Nero would fight; weapons from the Dream are not blocked by Aura.

The reason?

As it stands anyone in RWBY has a fair chance of beating any normal Hunter by virtue of being: magically invulnerable to all but the most lethal of blows, insanely fast (yes the fights are choreographed but in-universe they aren't and that's my point; contrast with Bloodborne's slow, almost clumsy swings) as well as being ridiculously strong (Ruby, a little fifteen year old, dragging a gigantic ass Nevermore up the side of a cliff), and depending on the Semblance, outright magical powers. It's basically the issue of translating game mechanics and abilities into a real-world(?) environment, since the Dream doesn't necessarily follow the laws of reality.

So, here's how I'm treating the two universes: Bloodborne has more efficient killers, but RWBY has the better fighters. In a tournament style brawl, RWBY would take the win pretty much nine times out of ten, with that loss being through sheer inexperience or some outlying factor. In a straight up fight to the death? Well... that depends on who's fighting, but as Crow demonstrated they don't hesitate to inflict killing blows.

In effect, RWBY's fighters are glass cannons; really damn fast and strong but if Nero or a Hunter gets a single good hit on them, they're done for. Meanwhile Bloodborne's Hunters are mighty glaciers; slow, mostly immobile, full of holes but again, one hit and it's curtains. Natural resilience to pain also allows them to endure much more powerful blows than one might expect; it'd take a blow with the intent to kill, which many Huntsman and Huntresses as shown in RWBY so far lack, to put down a Hunter. A veteran might be able to go against a Hunter, but a rookie Hunter and a rookie Huntsman would be severely one sided.

Weapons that are inherently impossible or "magical" I guess like the Chikage (magically blood soaked steel when transformed) and the Holy Moonlight Blade are forever lost.

However I am always open to feedback; just be gentle, ples. Unless I did something truly atrocious, blast that at me as loud as you can. I despise flaws in my stories.


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